Poetic expression knows no bounds and in the pursuit of perfection, the poet reaches into every corner, under every stone, to come ever closer to a perfection never reached. It seems in that sense a waisted enterprise, yet what would give us the strength to go on otherwise. It is not just the words, not just the skills we have learned but more the heart and intention that matters. So in that pursuit I lay prostrate, open and bleeding, hoping that my truths touch others as they have touched me. All else in my work is superfluous, one either connects or doesn’t and that’s what defines successful poetry, not numbers, readership or comparisons can dictate the value of creative expression. We are only human.
Tony DeLorger © 2019
A rasping contentious voice, bellows,
a mild-mannered fractious release,
having kept his hat on for so long,
his grimaced smile appease,
until molten metals and flames exude
his frustration multiplied,
the fires of hell spilled from his mouth
where normally he’d sympathise.
Limits we must acquire,
for that devil conspires to elevate,
what we in hapless states dismiss,
and by the time that bell tolls,
we are a half demon, half a snake’s hiss,
and better keep your distance
when sense in compromised,
for it ain’t a pretty picture, this fire.
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